Code Name: Blondie

by Christina Skye

  “No, sir. That’s all. Izzy Teague has briefed me. The team is ready to deploy at your command.”

  “Stay ready, Lieutenant. I don’t need to tell you what Cruz is capable of. You saw him in action.”

  “It’s nothing something I’m likely to forget, sir.” Houston stood up and picked up a wet napkin that had fallen from Ryker’s desk. “I’ll put those in the garbage for you, sir.”

  “No need. I clean up my own messes, Lieutenant.” Ryker wondered how much Houston had seen in that first moment of entering the room. The man had superb memory, and one glance would have been enough.

  No, that was impossible. The man was good, but no one was that fast.

  “I’m leaving this to you, Houston. Take down Cruz. I want this problem dealt with.”

  “Count on it, sir.”

  When the door closed, Ryker pulled the wet napkins away from the top-secret file. Lab 21 had been a mistake from the start, but the possibility of success had been too great to ignore.

  One day Houston and the others would know the full extent of Ryker’s vision and the power it would create for all of them. But first they had to track down a traitor. Enrique Cruz was a time bomb that could send the whole Foxfire project up in smoke with two words.

  Lab 21.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MIKI CAME AROUND SLOWLY, aware of a splitting headache and a taste like shoe leather in her mouth. Something bad had happened, and as she sat up, she remembered what it was.

  He’d watched her, first curious and gentle. Then his face had hardened. She knew that something in the dog’s reaction had been the trigger. After that, Max had turned cold and distant, staring at her but not really seeing her. Then he’d caught her against the wall and touched her as if he was looking for something specific, hidden on her skin.

  Cruz. He’d asked her about someone named Cruz.

  Crazy.

  Miki took an angry little breath that caught in a hiccup. Slowly she stood up, trying to understand. She was in deep water here, and good and bad might not be where she expected them. She was almost certain that Max worked for the government and he was here under orders of secrecy.

  She looked out the room’s old, warped porthole, suddenly exhausted. She was out of her league, with no idea where to turn. Right now no one else even knew she was here. There would be no cavalry and no rescue teams charging in as saviors. She was on her own.

  The sky was gunmetal under a blotchy sky. Miki watched a school of dolphins crest suddenly, leap in exuberant arcs and then vanish, and for a moment there seemed to be a message there.

  But she didn’t know what it was. She was cold and hungry and her arm throbbed badly. She wanted to be home, surrounded by mountains and the clear light of the high desert. She closed her eyes on another hiccup. Stress, she thought.

  Focusing, she took deep breaths and willed away her panic. The hiccups vanished shortly after that and she watched angular birds walk clumsily on the beach, digging in the sand and calling hoarsely.

  There was something wrong with her scar. It burned in a way it never had before. Her forearm was swollen, too. Somehow Max was involved in this though she didn’t understand how that was possible.

  Standing at the warped old porthole, Miki thought of all the reasons she wanted to live and all the things she was determined to accomplish. She felt the blood pump through her heart and squeeze through her veins and the cool brush of metal at her forehead where it pressed on the porthole and Miki thought it was good to be alive. If the pain and exhaustion were part of the price, then she welcomed them, too.

  She refused to die.

  With one finger she traced a line in the rust covering the metal wall. She could try to run again, but where would she go? Maybe she could find another cave, another bunker, but then what? More hiding and more running.

  No, she was going to stand her ground. She would have to trust Max and work with him for the moment even though it went against every instinct. He was her only way out.

  A gust of wind raced up from the ocean, shaking the old boat and something crashed behind her. She swung around and saw a dark head with a gaping mouth and bulging eyes rolling toward her.

  She was on the edge of a scream when she realized that the thing on the floor was a World War II gas mask slung over an old nylon parachute. Twisted together on the floor, they looked like a figure straight out of hell.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep, rasping breath. “Time to calm down,” she said tensely. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re alone and you’re breathing, so it could be a lot worse.” And the jerk in the black wetsuit—okay, the gorgeous jerk with the buns of steel and abs of solid platinum—was nowhere to be seen now.

  Miki looked around the dusty cabin. She was still confused by what he’d done and even more confused by his sudden nosebleed. And he hadn’t seemed personally interested in her body. His eyes had been cold and focused, almost as if he was involved in a science project.

  But she was the science project, and it had something to do with the man named Cruz, who had done some seriously bad things, judging by the way Max said his name.

  And he thought she was involved?

  Miki made a nasty comment, rolling her eyes. No way would she ever sell out her country. Hard on the heels of that thought came another. If this man Max was tracking a traitor, that meant he was definitely one of the good guys. No matter how furious she was, she had to find a way to help him. After all, Truman was gorgeous and smart and wonderful, so how could his owner be all bad?

  She took a wobbly step, wishing she had some of the water from Max’s canteen. A quart of Starbucks premium espresso ice cream would have been nice, too.

  But what she really needed to do was figure out the lay of the land. After that she would find a way to help him—even if she had to beat him to a pulp to convince him she was on his side.

  She tried the wooden door to the companionway and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He had locked her up again. No doubt he would insist it was all for her own safety.

  Half a dozen hard thumps with the weight of her body proved fruitless. Another thing that didn’t surprise her.

  Ignoring a wave of hunger, Miki studied the room, which appeared to be some kind of storage area. Old cardboard boxes and empty tins of food were shoved in a corner, surrounded by animal droppings and the small skeleton of what appeared to have been a rat.

  Ugh. Rats again. She hated rats. Shuddering, Miki opened a rickety crate and checked inside.

  Empty.

  Wincing, she sat down on the crate and rubbed her arm, feeling another stab of pain along her scar, which was aching viciously. Her eyes flickered over the darkened room, taking in the gas mask and the old parachute. She wasn’t sure what made her drag the mask and the torn nylon across to the door. She had never been very good at long-term career planning or financial strategies—the flat-broke state of her bank account was proof of that. She had always been a seat-of-the-pants, follow-your-bliss kind of person, but survival meant taking advantage of any tools you stumbled upon.

  With awkward movements Miki pushed the heavy mask up against the wall and dropped the parachute on top of it, then searched the rest of the room. The cardboard boxes were empty. The food was all eaten. Only a rusty metal locker stood with its door askew across from the dented porthole.

  Hardly promising. What would Lara Croft do now?

  Miki’s arm throbbed as she sat down on the empty crate. When she rolled up her sleeve, she saw a small line of blood and prayed the wound wasn’t infected.

  She was trying to relax when something skittered overhead like dry leaves. Metal creaked and the rustling came again, moving across the deck.

  Miki grabbed the gas mask and parachute and sank against the wall next to the companionway door. The skittering had stopped, but something about that one sound made her uneasy.

  A seabird cried in the distance.

  The door latch rattled sharply and Miki’s fingers trembled as she l
eaned against the wall, waiting, listening to the pump of her heart.

  Something heavy shifted out in the corridor. The door slowly opened, and an arm appeared, hidden beneath a black rubber wetsuit.

  So Max had returned. Yet something kept her rigid, watching the edge of the wetsuit. The figure’s furtiveness didn’t feel right.

  Her heart lurched when she saw a serrated knife gripped in the gloved fingers. The face above the knife belonged to a stranger.

  In sheer terror Miki swung the gas mask with all her might, knocking the man in the side of the head as she let it fly. He staggered against the wall, shook his head, then swung back to face her, blood streaming from his forehead. Flat, cold eyes narrowed on her face.

  The big knife pointed directly at her heart. Miki knew she couldn’t surprise him a second time, and even if she could, the gas mask was out of reach, halfway across the floor.

  She took a gasping breath, fighting panic, then feinted right, made a run for the mask and shoved the metal crate between them. Because her attacker was right-handed, he was forced to change sides, but before he could reach her, Miki threw the parachute up in the air over his head, his knife slashing wildly as the nylon canopied out and dropped over his eyes. While the man was blind beneath the dusty fabric, she grabbed the gas mask and slammed him in the head again. He swayed, striking furiously and the blade’s wicked teeth ripped through the nylon and slashed deep into her arm.

  Tears blurred her vision, but she swung the gas mask yet again, knocking the knife free. The big blade clattered across the floor and her attacker cursed, then pitched forward onto the floor, wrapped up neatly in white nylon.

  Miki closed her eyes and dragged in air, shaking as panic hit her full bore. Was she crazy? Had she just gone mano-a-mano with a mercenary wielding the biggest freaking knife she’d ever seen? Who did she think she was?

  When her shaking stopped, she stood up slowly. Blood oozed from the long cut on her arm, and she felt oddly disjointed, separate from her own body. Shock, she thought.

  I am going to throw up any second now.

  When she turned around, Max was standing in the doorway, the big knife gripped in his right hand. He looked entirely comfortable holding it.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Miki stared at him in confusion, caught by terror and fury. “All of a sudden he was there, holding that knife. He tried to—he almost—” Her voice shook.

  Dark and fierce, Max’s eyes locked on her arm. “He hurt you.” He pulled her against him and shoved back her sleeve, frowning. “Pretty damned deep, too. I’ll clean it up.”

  Miki swayed, fighting the pain burning down her arm. The wound felt as if it was directly over her scar, tearing open the fragile tissue all over again.

  Sometimes life sucked.

  Her knees buckled a little and she felt Max’s arm brace her shoulder as he gently cleaned the wound. “Lean on me.”

  “Not allowed.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I don’t lean on anyone. By the way, if you’re ever planning to kill me, do it fast, because I’m not very good with pain.”

  Miki thought she saw his lips curve slightly. “Looks to me like you’re pretty damned tough, Blondie.”

  His hand at her shoulder was surprisingly gentle and Miki leaned on him just a little as he placed a bandage over the slash.

  Then there was a noise behind her. The man on the floor came to life and made a swift jab with his foot. Max parried, hit him twice and sent him toppling back to the floor.

  All she could do was stare, too tired to move. She didn’t want to die. There were too many places she hadn’t seen, too many pictures she hadn’t taken. She looked down at the blood on her arm, oozing over her jeans. Now the denim was slashed at both knees. “Damn,” she whispered. “These used to be my favorite. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a pair of jeans that really f-fit?”

  “Afraid I don’t. I’m not into clothes.” Max took a white cloth from his inside his vest, softly brushed back her hair and studied her face. “You’re a mess, honey.”

  “What about him?”

  “He won’t be getting up for a while.”

  “Is he…dead?” Miki heard the words echo as if she was moving through a tunnel.

  “He would have killed you.”

  No arguing with that. “Who is he?”

  “Someone who plays for keeps,” Max said grimly.

  Miki took a tight breath. “Will there be more of them?”

  “More than likely. That’s why Truman is keeping watch up top. He’s the one who saw that you had company. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

  “No problem. I took c-care of him.”

  “You sure did, honey.”

  “And this has something to do with that guy Cruz you mentioned?”

  Max’s eyes hardened. “More than likely,” he said again, folding the cloth and pressing it gently to her upper lip.

  “I don’t understand any of this.” Miki squared her shoulders. “But I can handle myself.” Her nose was running and she wiped it on her shirt. “I took care of Creepy over there by myself, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” Max’s lips curved again.

  He had a nice smile, Miki realized. It was just a little awkward, as if he didn’t use it much, but that made it all the more interesting.

  “You’re some kind of hard-ass, aren’t you?” He refolded the cloth and replaced it against her top lip. “A hard-ass with a nosebleed that’s not stopping,” he said grimly.

  He was wearing the gloves again, she noticed. They almost seemed like they belonged on him. “Me? You’re the one who gets nosebleeds.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’ve never had a nosebleed in my life. Okay, once when I jumped out of a cottonwood tree on a bet with Kit’s brother, but that was it. What the heck is happening to me?”

  As he examined her face carefully, Miki felt more blood well up.

  “Take deep breaths and try to relax.”

  Right, like she could really relax sitting with G.I. Joe on a rusty battleship in the middle of nowhere. It was going to take more than a few cleansing yoga breaths to deal with this nightmare.

  “Breathe, damn it. Come on, honey. Don’t faint on me.”

  “I n-never faint,” she said raggedly, feeling the floor sway.

  “Who’s Kit? You mentioned her just now.” His fingers traced her lip, wiping away blood with a fresh cloth.

  “My best friend. She’s Trace’s sister.”

  He didn’t seem to hear, busy pulling something out of his vest pocket.

  “I have to get back to Dutch,” Miki said hoarsely. Max was too close, too gentle and suddenly she wanted to close her eyes and let him hold her. She wanted to lean, to touch. Very tempting. Very dangerous.

  She tried to pull away, only to feel his hands tighten. “Don’t rush it, Blondie. Take a few more deep breaths while I look at your arm.”

  “I want to leave.” Miki winced as he moved her hand. “You can check me out after you take care of Dutch.”

  He stared at her in silence as he zipped up his black tactical vest. “Dutch is lucky to have you watching over him.” The words were so quiet, she wondered if she’d imagined them. “Take it slow. Lean on me if you need to.”

  His voice was low and husky. For some reason the rough tone made heat swirl into Miki’s face as she thought about sliding her arm around his waist, her thigh pressed against his.

  She cleared her throat. “What about Creepy over there?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s going nowhere.” Max’s cold, professional stare was back. “No more noise until we’re back in the bunker, understand?”

  For a moment there had been something dark and hungry in his eyes. There had even been respect in his smile. Now both were gone. Miki had seen that same kind of closed expression on the face of Kit’s brother, a Navy SEAL with a very hush-hush unit. “Are you in the Navy?”

  His eyes cut back to her, cold and focused. “What
makes you think that?”

  “Your control. The way you watch things around you and say as little as possible. Nothing seems to upset you.”

  “Why would that make me Navy?”

  She shrugged. Her arm was burning, but she tried to ignore it. “My friend swears SEALs are the best of the best. Of course, she’s biased because she’s going to marry one. Her brother’s a SEAL, too.” She studied Max’s face, noting the hard jaw and the keen eyes. “Watching people is part of my job as a photographer. I’m good at it,” she said with sudden pride. “If my last job had worked out…Never mind.”

  “The calendar you were shooting, right? Best Beaches of the World?”

  She laughed tightly. “My big break that turned into my big disaster. Plane crash, cameras ruined, boss dead.” She concentrated on stepping over the tangled parachute. “But, hey, I’m alive.” Her voice hardened.

  Her nose itched and she swiped at it again. Blood covered her fingers, making her feel sick. She looked away, staring through the rusted porthole. “I want to go.”

  He tightened the straps on his vest and nodded. “You’d better take that parachute. We might need it.” He picked up the man from the floor and tossed him over one shoulder with no apparent effort. “Maintain a positive outlook. It influences tactical outcome.”

  The man was definitely military, Miki thought. She tried to feel positive, but all she could see was blood—hers and her attacker’s, dark against the rusting floor. “What if more men come back?”

  “No need to worry.” He gave another faint smile. “I’m a hard-ass, too.”

  “Let me tell you—you have a great ass.”

  Something came and went in his eyes. “A compliment, ma’am?”

  “Definitely. Your abs are pretty buff, too.” It was the least she could do since he’d saved her life—again. Her smile turned shaky.

  But Max didn’t hear because he was busy locking Creepy in a small room at the bottom of the stairs.

  Miki followed slowly. She was trying to stay upbeat like he said, but it was pretty hard when you had someone else’s blood on your arm and you felt like throwing up.